Metempsychosis 2: Shattered Images
by kangeiko
Summary: Sequel to "Dies Irae". Michael is trying to adjust to life in the Corps, but his former friends simply won't let go. A confrontation is coming.... but what will he find to say to them?


**Metempsychosis: 2. Shattered Images**

**Disclaimer:** Pretty much the same disclaimer as the one for part 1, really. Any characters, situations or events not owned by J. Michael Straczynski and Warner Bros. are copyright me. Don't bother trying to sue me, I have all of three cents in my bank account. I apologise to Ken Starr now.

**Warning:** Minimal spoiler warnings [some for the Telepath War… well, all the hearsay I have come across…, minimal sexual content and violence warnings. Nonetheless, these are adult themes, boys and girls, not suitable for little kiddies. You have been warned…

**Thanks to:** As in Dies Irae, a big thank you to all my beta readers, especially a very special person who shall remain nameless out of modesty… yeah, right. ;-)

**Notes:** If you haven't read Chapter 1 of this series [Dies Irae, this will make no sense whatsoever. Well… it might. But best read Chapter 1 anyway. The title of this one is a reference to the William Blake poem, "A Divine Image." The full text of it is below.

Cruelty has a Human Heart

And Jealousy a Human Face

Terror, the Human Form Divine

And Secrecy, the Human Dress

The Human Dress is forged Iron

The Human Form, a fiery Forge.

The Human Face, a furnace seal'd

The Human Heart, its hungry Gorge.

-- "A Divine Image" by William Blake

Part 1

**Setting: **2265 - one year after the events of Dies Irae (three years after Objects at Rest). Psi Corps HQ, Geneva.

The inquiry board was gathered in a large, airy hall at the centre of Psi Corps HQ. Eleven people sat around a table littered with flimsies, seemingly distracted by the sunlight streaming in through the large windows. At the centre of the table sat the chairman – a small, fair man, more mouse than human, with a nervous demeanour than set Garibaldi's teeth on edge. If he had turned up on Babylon 5 looking any more harmless, he might have arrested him on the spot. A man that innocent-looking had to be hiding something.

Dark eyes regarded Garibaldi for a moment, invoking an uncomfortable feeling of deja vu until the stare was removed and transferred with some irritation to the flimsies that littered the table.

"Mr. Garibaldi," the chairman began, adjusting his gloves, his glasses and damn near everything else, "do you have anything further to add to your testimony regarding this inquiry into your conduct on the Starr case?" A delicate probing at the edges of his mind, verifying his responses without actually scanning him. For this small mercy Garibaldi was infinitely grateful.

"No, sir. Everything is in my report. Ken Starr panicked when I reached the outer edges of his mind, inadvertently drawing me into him. I tried to resurface, but, in his fear, he dragged me down further into his mind. I saw no other alternative but to sever the link immediately. Unfortunately, this resulted in an aneurysm on Mr. Starr's part. If," a small note of accusation crept into his voice; the chairman raised his head like a panther scenting blood, "if I had been supplied with enough information pertaining to Mr. Starr's medical status, I would never have agreed to the verification."

The chairman and the rest of the board digested this in silence. More shuffling of paper; muttering under breath. At last, they raised their heads from the silent communion they had been observing.

"It has been decided," the woman on the far right of the table began, "that you were not to blame for this unfortunate, aah, incident. Taking Mr. Starr's medical history into account, we can conclude that his collapse and subsequent death was a result of exceedingly poor health; a fact which you were not made aware of at the time. Nonetheless, this committee is still concerned about your conduct in this affair. Certain parties," here she paused, leaving Garibaldi to guess at whom she was referring to, "feel that your manner is, aah, a little brusque. Would you agree?"

Garibaldi considered this carefully for several seconds, scratching at his left wrist idly. For some Godforsaken reason, it turned out that he had a mild allergy to leather. Then, "yes, I would. I have been described as brusque, brash and downright rude on a number of occasions. It has never affected my job adversely."

"Well, your job has changed somewhat," the chairman snapped, slapping the pile of flimsies he held across the table with a resounding 'thwack!' "You are no longer a security officer or a PI; you are now a Psi Corps member, and must observe all rules pertaining to scanning etiquette and other duties you may be called upon to perform. You now have to deal with people, Mr. Garibaldi," the man stressed, leaning on his finger to make his point, "people, rather than criminals. You are there to assist in their questioning, not interrogate them!"

Garibaldi remained silent, judging that it was better to weather this particular storm rather than trying to navigate.

The chairman sighed. "Try not to antagonize mundanes quite so much in the future. They still have a role to play in society, albeit a limited and finite one. Dismissed."

**Setting:** Return flight to the London Psi Corps facilities.

The flyer lifted off without so much as a murmur. Whatever else the Corps had trouble with, they always got the best and the brightest for the job. Huddled in his seat at the back of the flyer, Garibaldi decided that it wasn't actually the almost-silence that he was having trouble with; the quiet hum of the flyer's engines was rather comforting. What troubled him was the constant inaudible chatter at the edge of his mind. Contrasted with the complete silence around – the pilot was Corps and kept to himself, and there were no other passengers – the tumult of Earth was enhanced to a sharpness that was almost painful.

This shouldn't have been happening… It wasn't as if this was new – well, not anymore. He had been a 'commercial telepath' for nearly a month now; the novelty of having normals around should have worn off – his shields should have adapted to the extra strain. He should have learned how to keep the outside thoughts at bay.

But he hadn't. He thought he had done so well – and when you considered his age, his progress could be described as bloody brilliant. But that was in the training sessions - now, they were over. And he had found that, once in the field, he couldn't cope.

Garibaldi frowned. No, that was a lie. He could cope – with everything the Corps required of him. What he couldn't cope with was the hatred and loathing radiating off all the mundanes around him… a loathing he had once shared. A loathing he had once actively encouraged – hell, a loathing he had engineered, in helping Lyta try to destroy the Corps. Of course, he hadn't succeeded. Of course. He knew why now. On the outside, the Corps had been hurt, bleeding. Injured just enough for Lyta to change him, to let him revenge his life – and death.

He had. And then – everything changed.

He had ended up at a screening centre, he didn't know how – one day, he was just there, with a beautiful young woman leading him by the hand to a grey room where a black-clothed man waited. The woman looked a bit like Lianna, if he squinted. The man looked a bit like Bester – the same onyx eyes staring right into him. He had gone straight for the man's throat, screaming his vocal cords hoarse.

Mild surprise that they had not locked him up. Just – restrained him. Let him have time on his own, let him think things through. Then they had talked to him, for hours and hours on end. It had taken him a week to realise that he was talking to a psychiatrist, not a psi cop. Or maybe both. It was possible, after all.

Another week to talk to the listener, to let them do their job. It had taken him so long to trust… but there had been no interrogation, no anger at Bester's death. Maybe they were happy the bastard was… no. They mourned the psi cop's passing, but did not revenge themselves on him. They simply accepted him as a gift from beyond the grave.

It was strange... they were Corps - everything he despised, the very institution he had tried to destroy. Didn't he hate telepaths? He had thought that he did. Refused to trust them, sure. At first he'd just hated the Corps - Bester, Kelsey, all those minions that had scurried around and messed with his mind. Hated them, hated the Corps... then Byron's betrayal, all that death... he'd taken away one very valuable lesson from that - never trust any telepaths. Never.

Yes, strange what necessity and hatred do to a person. It was one thing to hate telepaths when he had been - well, himself. Michael Garibaldi, former Head of Security, afterwards a P.I. Yeah, you could hate teeps to your heart's content that way.

It's quite another thing to hate them if you're one yourself.

Michael sighed and closed his eyes, concentrating on the invisible wall just behind his eyelids. He reinforced it - a painstaking process; bricks, mortar and sweat to bind it and seal it. Locked solid. The screeching voice of Earth eased a touch.

Bester had chosen his revenge well, Michael reflected. The Garibaldi of old hated the Corps and wanted nothing - nothing - to do with them. But he couldn't leave, could he? He'd known, from the very first day he'd walked into that brightly-lit room and seen only darkness that there was no going back. How could he leave, when there was such a screaming cacophony of sound constantly ringing in his ears? When he couldn't tell which were his thoughts anymore, and he'd picked up randomly?

Bester had chosen well. Garibaldi could never leave the Corps. But he didn't have to like it there, in the midst of those vipers... did he?

Michael frowned and tapped his fingers on the armrest impatiently. Yeah, I so hate it here...

Sarcasm tasted bitter on his tongue. It would have been so easy if he did. But - I don't. He didn't even know when that had changed. But despite his fears, no one had harmed him. No one. The one place in the universe where he'd thought he wouldn't last a microsecond - had accepted him unconditionally.


End file.
